


Succession

by Nydia



Category: Brave (2012)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:34:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nydia/pseuds/Nydia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few short years after the events of the movie, chaos threatens to upend the stability of the clans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Succession

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yalu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yalu/gifts).



The wedding of Merida, princess of DunBroch, to Drostan, nephew of Lord Macintosh – the third son of a second son – was, in some respects, a disappointment. For those who held to the old traditions, it was no less than a travesty.

Queen Elinor had made it clear several years before, however, that the girl was to have her choice in the matter of her betrothal. From the time the two had met, several years after the disastrous Highland Games at which the clans had first presented their eldest sons, it had been clear what that choice would be. So those who loved Merida and Drostan celebrated unreservedly, while those of Clan Macintosh who were still offended at the snub of their firstborn could at least comfort themselves that the clan had gotten the princess in the end.

Whispers in Dingwall and MacGuffin, where no such consolation could be found, lingered longer. Events quickly overtook them, however, as the English invaders launched another campaign less than a year after the wedding. No clan was untouched by the deaths that followed. Eighteen months later Lord MacGuffin lived, but three sons had fallen. The uninspired young Dingwall now led his clan, as his father had succumbed to illness a month before the invasion. Macintosh was perhaps the hardest hit, losing the lord and both of his sons. Drostan’s father now ruled, and with one son dead and another unmarried, it was possible that a son of Merida’s would rise to clan leadership after all. And Fergus of Dun Broch was dead.

By the time the English turned their attention toward the French instead, the thin alliance that had held the Scottish clans together for a generation was weakening. The death of Fergus had left Dun Broch in turmoil, as factions lined up behind each of the triplet princes. The boys were still young, and none of them had a strong desire to rule – or to turn against his brothers. Those within the clan who craved power saw opportunity. Unwillingly, Harris took the crown when Queen Elinor and the maid Maudie both swore that he had been the first born. By then, Dun Broch’s leadership among the clans had weakened. The four clans had been held together by the sword of Fergus and the political savvy of Elinor. Without the sword, and with Dun Broch’s political focus turned inward, things began to fall apart.

“The truth of it is,” Hamish said to Merida as they visited when Drostan represented Macintosh at Harris’s first Christmas feast, “you should have been born a boy.”

“Certainly there was a time I thought so,” Merida replied, reaching out to snag a toy bow from the hand of her young son as he ran by. “It doesn’t help matters now, though. Can Harris hold them?”

“MacGuffin has no spirit for fight,” Hamish said. “He’s aging, and no longer has a son to take up his mantle. He blusters, but he will follow the strongest wind.”

Merida agreed. “Dingwall is unpredictable,” she warned. “You don’t expect much of him, but he surprises you. He would have had my hand, I think, had things gone as they were intended.”

“And Macintosh?” Hamish held his sister’s eyes.

Her words chosen carefully, Merida spoke slowly. “My father-in-law never thought to lead his clan, much less a kingdom.”

“And yet it’s funny how the taste of power a man never expected to have can make him crave still more.”

Merida looked away. “Do not ask me, little brother. I am Dun Broch by birth, but my husband and his father are men of Macintosh—as is my son, small though he is. I do not want conflict between our houses, and I hope we can yet avoid it, but you cannot ask me to betray their thoughts.”

“Of course,” Hamish said, but his voice was tight. After a moment he relaxed, smiling genuinely as he looked at his nephew and nodded at the tiny bow still in Merida’s hand. “And who is teaching the young Macintosh to shoot an arrow – his father, or his mother?”

Merida laughed. “He can barely hold an arrow yet, much less shoot one,” she said. “But when he does hold it, ‘tis I who has taught him to hold it well.”

 

The fighting, when it started, seemed little more than a squabble over grazing rights. Several families within the Dingwall clan were shepherds whose sheep had traditionally grazed the Dùadhin ridge. Even the Dingwall, however, had to admit that it was entirely possible that the land was technically the property of one of Macintosh’s vassal families, despite the fact that the rental fees the shepherds had once paid had not been enforced in over twenty years – since the time Fergus united the clans.

What seemed like a small matter signaled a larger shift, which shrewder observers noted immediately. In the absence of strong leadership, force of arms was once again to be used to settle disputes between the clans. The unified government led by Harris of Dun Broch would soon become a thin fiction, and even that would not hold long.

“MacGuffin and Dingwall are on the verge of open war,” Drostan reported to his father’s council three months later. “Dun Broch has sent representatives to both sides, attempting to postpone the inevitable.”

The new Lord Macintosh looked at his older son. “Will Harris take sides when his diplomacy fails?”

“He has not given any sign of his intentions,” Cailean answered him. “But Dingwall has a sister, and Harris does not have a queen. I’m told Dingwall is pushing for the match in hopes of an alliance.”

Drostan frowned. “I thought we were done with the days of marriages made for politics.”

His father laughed. “It was lucky for you that your young wife was able to have her choice,” he said. “But you cannot expect the lords to follow her example. The sisters and daughters must marry someone, after all, and it is difficult for a man to be your enemy when you have grandchildren in common.” He turned to Cailean. “Is Dingwall likely to succeed?”

Cailean hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. “I’m told the girl is beautiful, but Harris is not as likely as some men to be swayed by such considerations. He fancies himself his father, and his priority is to hold the clans together.”

“Let us hope he succeeds,” Macintosh said, “and that all our preparations are unnecessary.”

His sons looked at him in surprise. “I intend to emerge victorious if it all degenerates into chaos,” Macintosh said. “But young Harris is right, as his father was before him. We must hold together, or no victory will last long once the English return.”

 

Reports of skirmishes between clans were coming in with a disturbing regularity, but the hostilities had stayed short of war by the time summer hit the highlands. The clans gathered, summoned by the king in terms they did not quite dare – yet – to refuse.

Suspicious glances were cast from each quarter of the room as Harris argued for peace. Speeches turned to grumbling, grumbling to yelling, but no action was yet taken. As Merida listened, something out of the corner of her eye caught her attention.

She bolted upright as what she was seeing registered in her brain. A shouted warning would be too late. Instead, she seized the bow her husband carried, fitted an arrow to the string with expert speed, and let it fly.

Shrieks of alarm and outrage came from all directions; more than one man in the MacGuffin camp turned toward the Macintosh and drew swords as the arrow thwacked into the wall behind the table where their lord was seated.

“Wait!” The voice of MacGuffin boomed through the hall, silencing the outcry and freezing his men in their tracks. All turned in his direction. As the lord came to his feet, his nearest retainers were subduing a man whose right arm was bleeding, torn by Merida’s arrow. A knife lay at his feet.

“Is this what we have come to, my lords?” Merida’s voice rang out. “Assassins in the king’s hall? What is the sense of it?”

“Can anyone identify this man?” demanded Harris. For a long moment, no one spoke. "Take him to a cell," he commanded at last, and the would-be assassin was dragged off by a combined force of Dun Broch and MacGuffin retainers.

The king's voice was cold as he turned to Dingwall. "My lord," he said, "there is at this moment no evidence connecting your clan to this attempt, therefore I do not accuse you. However!" His voice rose as he turned back to address the council at large. "These events certainly make clear that any efforts of diplomacy we may attempt will not succeed."

He nodded to Macintosh, who rose slowly to his feet. “Lord MacGuffin, Lord Dingwall, it is true that Dun Broch is not strong enough to keep the peace by force,” Harris continued. “I am aware of this as each of you. It would take a more foolish man than I believe either of you to be, however, to contend with the allied forces of Dun Broch and Macintosh. Lord Macintosh has placed his men at my disposal, and together we will hold this kingdom together by any means necessary.”

The buzz in the council hall was deafening. “To cement this alliance,” Harris’s voice rose above the din once more, “my brothers have agreed to support our sister’s son as my heir. Fergus of Macintosh, grandson of Fergus of Dun Broch, will be your next king.”

 

The tumult of events before the clans finally dispersed from council left Merida little time to see her family before parting again. As they bid their farewells, Elinor kissed her grandson’s head, then looked at Merida. “It is one thing to raise a princess,” she said. “It is another to raise a future king. As it works out, neither is easy or simple.”

Merida smiled at her mother. “You succeeded, it would seem,” she said. “An example to follow is the best lesson, aye?”

 

It came to pass in the fullness of time that Fergus the Second did indeed rise to leadership of the clans. Combining the legendary strength and political savvy of his Dun Broch grandparents, and the cleverness of his Macintosh grandfather, it was said that Fergus also had a spirited streak that came straight from his mother. His reign was a golden age, unmatched in the highlands for centuries to come.


End file.
